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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28043631">five tall pine trees</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/pseuds/kim47'>kim47</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Friends at the Table (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Friendship, Getting Together, M/M, Romance, Vignettes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:54:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,622</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28043631</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/pseuds/kim47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“But—” Ephrim continues, then pauses. “If you wanted to, to leave. Even if it’s just to go out for longer. To spend less time here. To do—to do the kind of things you’re used to,” he says hesitantly, as if speaking of some kind of sacred rituals. “If you wanted that—I would get it.”</p><p>He sounds earnest, like he really does mean it, like he’s willing to let Throndir walk away.</p><p>“Ephrim,” Throndir says slowly. “I’m not going to do that. To you, or to everyone here.” </p><p>*</p><p>Throndir and Ephirm, in spring and cold winter.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ephrim/Throndir (Friends at the Table)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Yuletide 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>five tall pine trees</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalcifer/gifts">Kalcifer</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>happy yuletide kalcifer! thank you so much for your prompt, it gave me the perfect excuse to write these two. you asked for a moment of levity in cold winter - i hope this hits the spot.</p><p>big big thank you to <a href="https://twitter.com/seabedcity">liz</a> for the stellar beta work. title from tell me by jack de quidt, off the spring soundtrack, which i listened to on repeat while writing.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>year one</b>
  </p>
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>The underground garden quickly becomes Throndir’s favourite place at the Last University. It’s damp and dark and still something of an overgrown mess, but it’s quiet. The snow can’t find its way in, and there are more kinds of plants growing there than Throndir has seen in a long time.</p><p>It quiets something in him, stills some of the restlessness in his feet that he’s been resolutely ignoring for the long months he’s been at the University. </p><p>He makes a habit of stopping by every few days—sometimes to tend to a corner, clear out some weeds or rotten wood to give the plants more room to breathe, but sometimes just to sit and breathe himself. </p><p>He’s always been alone before, but today, when he climbs down, Ephrim is there. He’s sitting in Ephrim’s favourite spot, a soft patch of curling vines where the sunlight filters in through little crevices just enough to give a hint of warmth.</p><p>“Throndir,” Ephrim says, and he sounds surprised but not displeased. “Do you come down here much?”</p><p>“I’ve been coming here a few times a week since we found it,” Throndir admits. “It’s peaceful.” It feels like a concession.</p><p>“It is.”</p><p>Throndir sits on a large rock, a little distance from Ephrim but close enough to read his expression. He looks thoughtful, which is a strange look on Ephrim’s face. He’s changed in the time that Throndir has known him, but the demeanour of a haughty lord still sits most comfortably on his shoulders. </p><p>“We should go out for fuel tomorrow,” Throndir says. “We’re running low again.”</p><p>“When aren’t we,” Ephrim replies with a sigh.</p><p>“Yeah.” Throndir traces a finger along the soft green moss growing on the side of the boulder. “I like getting out there though,” he adds. “Even when it doesn’t go well, it makes me feel useful.”</p><p>Ephrim is silent for a moment, and Throndir watches the way the shards of sunlight play across his face.</p><p>“Do you miss it?” he asks Throndir eventually. “Being a Ranger?” </p><p>“I’m still a Ranger,” Throndir says automatically, though he knows what Ephrim means.</p><p>“You are,” Ephrim agrees. He looks down, plays with the wrist of his glove. </p><p>“Yes,” says Throndir, after a beat. “I do miss it sometimes. I don’t know that I’m very good at all of this.” </p><p>He sighs. He’s <em>not</em> good at this—at being responsible for this many people, at making these kinds of decisions, at leading. He’s not Hadrian.</p><p>“I think you’re doing just fine,” Ephrim says quietly. “It’s not—this isn’t hard because you’re bad at it, Throndir. It’s hard because it’s <em>hard</em>.</p><p>“It doesn’t help that I don’t know what I’m doing,” Throndir argues. “You’re used to being looked at like this. You know how to lead people.” </p><p>Ephrim shakes his head. He plucks a leaf from the nearest vine and starts to fold it in on itself. </p><p>“That has nothing to do with what we’re doing here. There’s no rules for this, Throndir.” He looks up and meets Throndir’s eye. “It’s the end of the world. I think you’re doing just fine.”</p><p>Throndir looks away from him, focuses instead on the delicate plants curling up around Ephrim’s shoulder.</p><p>“I’m trying.” </p><p>“But—” Ephrim continues, then pauses. “If you wanted to, to leave. Even if it’s just to go out for longer. To spend less time here. To do—to do the kind of things you’re used to,” he says hesitantly, as if speaking of some kind of sacred rituals. “If you wanted that—I would get it.”</p><p>He sounds earnest, like he really does mean it, like he’s willing to let Throndir walk away.</p><p>“Ephrim,” Throndir says slowly. “I’m not going to do that. To you, or to everyone here.” </p><p>“It would be understandable if you wanted to,” Ephrim says again. Throndir reaches out and grasps his arm. </p><p>“I’m not leaving,” Throndir says. “I wouldn’t. I won’t.” </p><p>Ephrim smiles, his face lighting up with it, and for a second he looks otherworldly beautiful, like the proud prince Throndir met what feels like a lifetime ago.</p><p>“Thank you,” he says, something approaching reverence in his voice. “I couldn’t—I don’t think I could do this without you.” </p><p>Throndir grins back at him, feeling lighter himself. He squeezes Ephrim’s arm and lets go. </p><p>“Come on, I can’t believe you thought I’d do that. I’m not Fero.” </p><p>It gets a laugh from Ephrim, which is why Throndir said it. </p><p>“I know, I just—I don’t want you to feel trapped here.”</p><p>Throndir does, a little, but it’s no fault of Ephrim’s. And the world outside the University doesn’t look all that much better in any case.</p><p>“Thank you,” he says, instead of any of that. </p><p>“Shall we go back?” Ephrim asks, after a beat, but Throndir settles back in against the moss.</p><p>“No hurry,” he says. “Let’s sit for a while. I’ve missed the quiet.”</p><p>Ephrim shoots him a small smile, and leans his leg out to knock against Throndir’s. </p><p>“The University can wait,” he agrees. “For a little while.”<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>year three</b>
  </p>
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>Ephrim feels good, for the first time in a long time. It’s warm in the club house, the late afternoon sun streaming in through the couple of ventilation shafts in the ceiling. And it turns out that the halflings have been giving Benjamin and Blue J the good stuff.</p><p>“Do you think they’ll notice?” he asks, refilling and relighting the pipe and taking a long drag. He passes the pipe to Throndir. “That we’ve been in their stash?”</p><p>The pain in his hand is a dull ache in the back of his mind; eminently ignorable.</p><p>“Almost definitely,” Throndir says, accepting the pipe. </p><p>“They probably won’t think it’s us,” Ephrim says thoughtfully. He exhales and watches the smoke drift towards the little ventilation shaft that leads out of the club house. He wonders if there’s some kind of natural air current that drags it out like that.</p><p>“Probably not.” Throndir always sounds pretty mellow—Ephrim thinks of it as one of his defining features—but he sounds especially relaxed now. </p><p>They smoke in silence for a while.</p><p>“If you could have anything to eat right now, what would it be?” Ephrim says after a long moment. He closes his eyes, tilting his head back against the wall. “Throndir?” he says, when Throndir doesn’t respond.</p><p>“I’m thinking about it,” Throndir says. “It’s a serious question.” </p><p>“It is.” Ephrim nods. “In Baron’s Gate, in the kitchens of the fortress, they make the most delicious honey cakes I’ve ever eaten.”</p><p>“I could go for a honey cake,” Throndir muses.</p><p>“It was a ridiculous decadence in a place like that, but they always made them for me when I was there.”</p><p>“Of course they did.” </p><p>“Gods, they were good,” Ephrim says with a sigh. He thinks about the rich sweetness and the soft texture of the cake and what he wouldn’t give for a taste of that again. “Sweet, but light enough and nutty enough that you’d always think you could have just one more, and the next thing you know you’ve made yourself sick.” He smiles, thinking about the disapproving looks he’d get from his mentor whenever he’d turn up for a lesson looking slightly ill, his sticky fingers betraying him.</p><p>“You? Indulging?” Throndir says, and when Ephrim turns to look at him his face is soft, fond. “Surely not.”</p><p>Ephrim laughs. </p><p>“You’d have indulged in these, too.” </p><p>“I’d like to try one.”</p><p>He nudges Throndir with his foot, tipping his head to the side to look at him. “What would you choose, then?”</p><p>“The thing is, food isn’t really the same for me, anymore,” Throndir says after a moment. “The taste doesn’t register in the same way it did before I died. It makes it hard for me to remember what I used to like.”</p><p>Ephrim still struggles to remember that Throndir is a vampire now, for all that it’s been literal years. Throndir doesn’t talk about it much and he <em>never</em> mentions the hunger.</p><p>“Hmm,” he says. He drags another puff from the pipe and passes it back to Throndir. “That’s depressing, but probably for the best right now given that we barely have enough of any kind of food, let alone anything that tastes good.”</p><p>“True.” Throndir tilts his head to the side to look back at Ephrim, so they’re practically forehead-to-forehead.</p><p>“I used to make a great venison stew with my dad,” he says. </p><p>Throndir doesn’t speak about his father much—this might be the first time he’s ever done it voluntarily. </p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“Yeah. He’s the one who taught me how to hunt. We’d go out for a few days at a time, and bring back anything we could find. There wasn’t much around, obviously, but we’d always find something.”</p><p>“He taught you how to shoot?”</p><p>Throndir nods and looks down at his hands. </p><p>“He did. He didn’t like it when I was better than him before long, though.”</p><p>Ephrim can picture it, like it’s right in front of him. A very young Throndir, quietly confident. Quick, efficient, ruthless. Just as skilled than he is now, but carefree. The image makes Ephrim smile, although the emotion is tinged with melancholy. </p><p>“And we’d get home, and the important part was always making sure we got the most of what we caught. There wasn’t a lot, so we couldn’t waste anything. He taught me how to salt the right parts, how to preserve them, and how to cook the rest. A bit of salt, some wild thyme. It doesn’t seem like much in retrospect, but it was delicious.”</p><p>Throndir sounds dreamy now, like he’s entirely lost to the past. He’s still, except for the fingers of his right hand, which curl in a motion Ephrim recognises; the pulling back of a bowstring. And there’s a smile playing at the corners of his mouth that makes something soft unfurl right in the centre of Ephrim’s chest.</p><p>He doesn’t say anything, unwilling to break the spell.</p><p>“It felt good, you know?” Throndir continues. “Doing that with my own two hands, to give to everyone else.”</p><p>“You’re still good at that,” Ephrim says. The connection is hazy in his mind, made indistinct by the smoky haze of the room, but still certain. Throndir frowns a little and so Ephrim repeats himself. “You’re great at that, that’s what you do here, for us.”</p><p>“I’ve never thought about it like that,” Throndir says. “It was a long time ago, before… ”</p><p>He shrugs, and shakes his head, like he’s resurfacing. The afternoon glow that suffuses the space lends him its warmth, and the smile he gives Ephrim is full of it, too.</p><p>“Anyway, we never had sweet things much, not like Baron’s Gate,” he says, a gentle mockery in his voice. </p><p>“I did only demand the best,” Ephrim says, and he bumps his shoulder into Throndir’s. “Dropping my standards a little these days, though.”</p><p>Throndir laughs and relights Benjamin’s pipe.</p><p>*</p><p>Two days later, Ephrim returns to his room to find a plate with two honey cakes sitting on his desk, amber and glistening.</p><p>There’s a note tucked underneath, in Throndir’s handwriting.</p><p>
  <em>I’m not sure they’re up to the standards of Baron’s Gate, but Emmanuel knows how to make something beautiful out of not very much. Enjoy—I owe him six months of dish washing and food service for using up the last of his stash of honey.</em>
</p><p>Ephrim picks up one of the cakes and takes a bite—there’s a soft give to the cake, and it falls apart sweetly on his tongue. There’s something surprisingly herbal to the flavour, as well as a slight tang on the finish that Ephrim can’t quite place. He can’t resist another bite, and another, until there’s nothing left but sticky crumbs on his lips.</p><p>It’s not quite what he remembers, but it is delicious nonetheless.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>year five</b>
  </p>
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>In the fifth year, they have a feast.</p><p>They have more than one—Throndir worries a little they’re over-indulging, that they should be saving more for next year, and the year after. But it’s been so long since they had enough to feed everyone with some left over, and no one is sick, and that has to be something worth celebrating.</p><p>The main hall is full of soft light tonight, and the table in front of Throndir is covered with more food than he’s seen in one place in a long time. Even though he doesn’t have much of an appetite for food these days, the aroma and the atmosphere alone fills him with contentment. </p><p>Ephrim is deep in conversation with Corsica, across the table from Throndir, but as he reaches out to fill his cup with wine, he catches Throndir’s eye and smiles. Throndir smiles back, helpless to do anything else, and feels the warmth spreading across his face. It’s tempting to blame it on the heat of the hall and the wine he’s been drinking, but it’s more than that.</p><p>It’s been nearly five years of seeing Ephrim every day, of working with him, talking with him, <em>suffering</em> with him, and Throndir can no longer remember a time when Ephrim wasn’t the most important person in his life. </p><p>And of course, it doesn't necessarily follow that Throndir would want to take Ephrim's delicately-featured face in his hands and kiss him senseless. He does, though.</p><p>Throndir absently pats Kodiak’s head where he’s sitting at Throndir’s feet. Kodiak huffs contently</p><p>After dinner, a few people bring out instruments and start to play, their voices light and merry. Eventually, they start to play something faster and a few people start to dance. Throndir watches as Benjamin pulls Blue J up by the hand and starts to spin them round, more roughhousing than dancing, but Blue J doesn’t seem to mind.</p><p>“Young love,” comes a deep, amused voice from just behind Throndir and Throndir turns to smile at Red Jack.</p><p>“It’s nice,” he says. “We could all use a bit more of that.”</p><p>“Even in the coldest winter, new things can flourish,” Red Jack says. They watch Benjamin and Blue J continue to dance together, now whirling in individual circles that inevitably crash into each other. They laugh every time it happens, but eventually, Blue J catches Benjamin around the waist and they start moving in step, smiling at each other.</p><p>A moment later, his eye is caught by Jerod Shiraz pulling Ephrim to his feet and goading him into a dance. It’s an unexpected pairing, and Ephrim holds himself stiffly at first, but he plays along with good humour, and after a few minutes he even looks to be having fun. Throndir doesn’t think Ephrim of five years ago would have done so.</p><p>“You’d do well to see that yourself, Ranger,” Red Jack rumbles. </p><p>“Hmm?” Throndir says, tearing his eyes away from Ephrim to look at Red Jack.</p><p>“We have all suffered enough, and been cold and hungry for too many years. Where you find joy and comfort, you should not withhold it. Make sure those you care for know that you do. Time is almost certainly not on our side.”</p><p>He doesn’t move his gaze from Throndir, but his gaze is penetrating and Throndir can feel the blush spread across his cheeks. </p><p>“I don’t disagree,” he says. “There have just been more important things going on.”</p><p>“Tonight,” Red Jack says, “is a night for revelry, and dancing, and joy in the face of despair.”</p><p>Others get up to dance—Throndir spots Fero in the middle of a crowd of mothkin waving his arms entirely off the rhythm and looking happier than Throndir has seen in a long, long time—and Throndir is content to sit and watch, especially with Red Jack for company.</p><p>It’s warm by the fire, though, and with so many more people gathered than normal, he eventually starts to feel overheated and overwhelmed by the closeness of the space. He excuses himself to step outside.</p><p>For once the cold outside is truly welcome, cooling Throndir’s skin as he takes deep draughts of the night air. It’s clear tonight, and the starstuff shield glimmers faintly overhead. </p><p>“You don’t feel like dancing?” </p><p>Throndir hadn’t heard Ephrim approach, but he can feel him now, a warm presence beside him.</p><p>“I’m not much of a dancer,” he admits with a laugh, turning towards Ephrim. “There wasn’t a lot of dancing in Auniq, and I never really learned how after.”</p><p>Ephrim’s cheeks are flushed and the hair falling across his forehead is a little damp with sweat. He’s beautiful.</p><p>“I don’t usually like it,” he admits. “I had lessons as a child and despised them. This though,” he adds, gesturing back inside, to where the sounds of music and laughter are filtering through. “It’s different. It’s good.”</p><p>“It is,” Throndir says. “I think everyone needed it.”</p><p>“But not you?” Ephrim asks. </p><p>“It was enough to watch,” he says honestly. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.” </p><p>Ephrim looks at him, head tilted to the side, and then steps closer. </p><p>“I’d have enjoyed it more with a different partner, I think,” he says quietly. He’s close enough now that Throndir can see the light dusting of freckles on his nose that have persisted through the cold and are just now starting to flourish.</p><p>Throndir thinks about Red Jack’s words, and thinks about the last five years. </p><p>"I think I would enjoy that too,” he says.</p><p>He raises his hand to brush his fingertips across one of Ephrim’s cheekbones, and watches Ephrim’s eyes flutter closed. He slides his hand down to cup the side of his neck, thumb pressing into the jut of Ephrim's jaw, and leans in to kiss him.</p><p>Ephrim’s left hand comes up to clutch at Throndir’s shirt and he kisses back without hesitation, tilting his head and opening his mouth against Throndir’s.</p><p>They stand there in the cold for long moments, exchanging slow kisses. Throndir wonders if Ephrim always runs this hot, if it’s the memory of the unwavering flame inside him that makes his skin burn like that, but he’s a perfect counterpoint to the chill of the air. Throndir wants to drown in it.</p><p>“I’ve been waiting for that,” Ephrim confesses when they separate. His hand uncurls, palm pressing against Throndir’s chest; he looks up at Throndir with pink cheeks.</p><p> Throndir presses their foreheads together and smiles.</p><p>“Me too,” he admits.</p><p>“There’s been a lot of important things going on though,” Ephrim says, and Throndir laughs.</p><p>“There have,” he agrees. “This is important too, though. To me.”</p><p>Ephrim, to his astonishment, blushes. </p><p>“I—yes. To me, too.”</p><p>Throndir reaches for his left hand, and Ephrim clasps it tight. His hand is calloused in Throndir’s, but so warm. It anchors Throndir in the moment and sends a rush of joy through him—an unfamiliar emotion these five years. </p><p>Throndir had never truly doubted Ephrim’s trust in or affection for him, but to have him here like this, his lips smiling and red from Throndir’s kisses, is a scene he’d simply never let himself imagine.</p><p>They make their way back through the hall to collect Kodiak from where he’s now slumped across Benjamin’s feet as he sits in the corner talking to Blue J.</p><p>“Oh, can we keep him?” Blue J asks as they approach. “We’re going out hunting tomorrow morning and he likes coming with us.” They turn their big eyes on Throndir, as if they need to do anything except exist for Throndir to give them what they want.</p><p>“Sure,” Throndir says easily, and Ephrim slips his hand back into Thronir’s and tugs at it, clearly impatient to be gone. Its contours already feel familiar, his palm at home against Throndir’s. Throndir can’t help the way it makes him smile, even as he sees Blue J’s eyes focus in on their hands and a delighted grin spreads across their face.</p><p>“Yep, okay, goodnight,” Throndir says in a rush before Blue J can say anything.</p><p>As they stumble out back into the cool night, Throndir catches Red Jack’s eye, who gives him an approving nod. It’s a strange sensation, to feel matchmade by a legendary being, but Throndir returns the nod with a wide smile. </p><p>“What’s that for?” Ephrim asks, clearly catching the tail end of Throndir’s expression, stopping to look him full in the face. </p><p>“Nothing,” says Throndir. He touches his fingers to Ephrim’s bottom lip, a little bruised from his attentions. “I’m just happy.”</p><p>And he is.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>year seven</b>
  </p>
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>It’s been years of practice, but Ephrim still hasn’t quite mastered the art of fighting with a steel sword.</p><p>He still misses the living flame; bending it to his will was second nature. Steel is too rigid, too inflexible. Too much <em>work</em>. He doubts he’ll ever enjoy it, but he has at least become competent enough to acquit himself decently in a fight.</p><p>Throndir, on the other hand, hates sword fighting.</p><p>“Get up, let’s go again,” Ephrim commands. </p><p>“Um, no thank you?” Throndir says from the ground. He’s squinting up at Ephrim against the bright sunlight.</p><p>“You’re getting better, come on,” Ephrim says. It’s not a lie, Throndir is genuinely better than he was when they started these lessons. He’s still not good enough to be a real match for Ephirm, but Ephrim is confident he can fix that.</p><p>Throndir sighs and heaves himself up.</p><p>“I’m already good with a bow and arrow, and at hand-to-hand combat, and I’ll have a sick gun just as soon as I release it from the crystal,” he says, his voice as close to complaining as it ever gets. “Isn’t that enough?”</p><p>“There aren’t many of us left here,” Ephrim counters. The lines of this argument are well-worn and familiar. “The more people at the University who can handle a sword the better.” It’s almost too easy—Throndir will always do something uncomfortable, or flat-out dangerous, if there’s a chance it will save someone else’s life.</p><p>Throndir retakes his stance, Ephrim counts down, and attacks.</p><p>He lunges, not taking care to disguise his movement, and Throndir ducks, and thrusts in counterpoint.</p><p>Throndir’s primary advantage is his strength—he’s steady on his feet, and powerful in his swings, and Ephrim can feel the power in the blade that sails past his shoulder.</p><p>He cuts back across his body, and parries the blow Throndir aims at him in return.</p><p>Ephrim’s instincts are just as fast as they’ve ever been, but his body is slower. It takes him half a step longer than it should to respond, and Throndir presses his advantage, following through with a lunge at Ephrim’s unguarded side. </p><p>Still, Ephrim is quicker on his feet than Throndir and manages to deflect his blow and step cleanly out of the way of the follow through. He’s impressed though—Throndir’s holding up longer than he usually does, attacking more fiercely.</p><p>Their swords touch, overhead, Ephrim bearing down on Throndir, sure he finally has the advantage. Then Throndir gets this look in his eye, a fucking gleam that Ephrim has seen before, and drops his right shoulder, stopping out of the way as Ephrim stumbles through at the sudden lack of resistance.</p><p>It’s a stupid move from Throndir, because on the follow through his sword will be out of position and Ephrim can easily take him. Except Throndir throws his sword away, ducks down, and kicks his legs out, sweeping Ephrim’s legs out from under him.</p><p>Ephrim drops like a sack of bricks, too surprised to brace himself properly. Throndir moves to stand over him, grinning like an idiot. Ephrim kicks out as he does, taking Throndir’s legs out himself, and next minute they’re wrestling.</p><p>It’s incredibly undignified, and Ephrim should probably care that they’re doing this on one of the grassy slopes behind the building Rosana and the contingent from Velas use. There are plenty of people around to see them, both those using the field for training themselves, and those lazing around enjoying a rare genuinely warm day. Once upon a time he <em>would</em> have cared.</p><p>He doesn’t now, though. Seven years of this and Throndir still occasionally catches him by surprise.</p><p>Throndir wasn’t lying—he <em>is</em> good at hand-to-hand. He knows how to move his body, and he’s not afraid to use his superior weight to his advantage, and it’s only about three minutes before he has Ephrim pinned to the ground, unable to move.</p><p>“Do you yield?” he asks, a current of laughter in his voice.</p><p>“I yield,” Ephrim says, and Throndir releases his hold immediately. He flops down on the grass next to Ephrim, who sits up indignantly.</p><p>“Some victory,” he says. “I only have one hand.”</p><p>Throndir laughs. </p><p>“I’ll still take it,” he says. “Silver Hand of Samothes.”</p><p>Ephrim snorts. Throndir does love to tease him about his titles. </p><p>They sit in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the sun. It truly is a beautiful day, clear and warm, with a gentle breeze moving through the grass around them. </p><p>“I have to go help clear out the storehouse,” Throndir says eventually, his voice regretful. “I should have been there a little while ago. We need to move everything from the second floor down to the first, some of the boards are rotting.”</p><p>He climbs up off the ground, and offers a hand down to Ephrim, but Ephrim waves it away.</p><p>“I’m going to sit here for a while,” he says. </p><p>Throndir nods; he squeezes Ephrim’s shoulder, fingers brushing against his neck, familiar and warm.</p><p>“I”ll see you tonight.”</p><p>Ephrim nods and watches him leave, picking his way across the grass. Throndir stops to greet most of the people he passes, even if only for a moment. On the whole, everyone at the Last University seems to like Throndir a good deal more than they like Ephrim. He’s certainly more approachable, and he has a genuine warmth when dealing with others that Ephrim can’t quite match.</p><p>It doesn’t bother Ephrim, particularly. Being <em>liked</em> has never really been the point. He works hard, here, with what they’ve built, and he makes the hard decisions. Whether people like him is incidental.</p><p>Except for Throndir—it had been quite a discovery to realise just how much he cared whether Throndir likes him. And the fact that Throndir seems to like him better than he does anyone else here, well. Ephrim’s never been quite sure what he did to earn that. He’ll take it though.</p><p>Ephrim stretches back out on the grass and turns his face towards the sun.<br/>
<br/>
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<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>year eight</b>
  </p>
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>It’s just late—almost late enough to be early—and Throndir is cleaning his gun.</p><p>It doesn’t need it; the magic of it means that it doesn’t truly require maintenance, and besides which it hasn’t been fired since he last cleaned it. But there’s something soothing in the ritual of cleaning, in the sense of care and duty that it engenders in him, and he finds himself returning to it again and again.</p><p>He can hear Ephrim behind him—he’d gone to bed hours ago, but Throndir can tell from his breathing and that he’s not asleep. Ephrim doesn’t sleep well most nights, these days. Eventually, he hears a sigh and Ephrim push back the covers and climb out of bed. </p><p>“Given up?” he asks, not turning around. He delicately clicks apart the grip from the barrel and slides the cloth along the inner edges of the trigger.</p><p>“I don’t think it’s going to happen,” Ephrim says. He sets a candle down on the table next to Throndir and sits next to him, the light of it casting a warm yellow glow across his face. “Can I help you?”</p><p>“Sure,” says Throndir. He hands him the bolt and sight. “These need to be cleaned of any dust and rubbed down with oil.” </p><p>Ephrim nods and sets to work, head bent to the task. His hair is loose down his back, messy from where he’d been tossing and turning, and he keeps reaching up to push it back over his shoulder when it falls forward into his face. </p><p>Throndir snorts, unties a soft leather band from around his wrist, and scoops Ephrim’s hair back into a loose knot. </p><p>“Thanks,” Ephrim says absently, attention still focused on the components before him. </p><p>It took almost a year of sharing a room before Ephrim stopped wearing gloves around Throndir, even to sleep. But he doesn’t now, and although he’s well used to it by now, the sight of the overt nothingness where Ephrim’s right hand and a good portion of his forearm should be still sometimes takes Throndir by surprise.</p><p>Ephrim’s fully adept with one hand now, though, and he works through the task steadily. It’s simple and straightforward, and it seems to ease his mind a little; the permanent furrow between his brows has smoothed out.</p><p>They work mostly in silence, Throndir only occasionally speaking up to direct Ephrim to another component, or to help him click two mechanisms back together. Between them the task shouldn’t take long, but there’s no hurry, and they work through the pieces slowly and methodically. </p><p>Eventually, Throndir sets the reassembled weapon down on the table, satisfied with how well it looks. </p><p>“Does this mean you’re going to start using it?” Ephrim asks—a gentle tease. </p><p>“I use it,” Throndir protests, even though Ephrim is right. He waited so long to grow the crystal into this gun, and now that he has it, he’s been strangely reluctant to learn how to use it properly.</p><p>“You absolutely do not,” Ephrim says. He stands and crosses to the small try set on top of the bookshelf. He pours a generous measure of clear amber liquid into a glass and returns, perching himself on the edge of the table.</p><p>He takes a sip of the drink, and then hands it to Throndir, who does the same. It’s an indulgence; a bottle of fine spirit, more than twenty years aged, from the Garden District of Velas, gifted to Ephrim by a devotee who’d passed through the university more than a year ago. Ephrim usually saves it for special occasions, for all that they are few and far between here. Throndir isn’t sure what qualifies tonight as one, but he drinks nevertheless.</p><p>“I think I worry that I won’t be very good at it,” he confesses, the warm, floral taste of the liquor loosening his tongue. </p><p>“If you don’t practice, you definitely won’t be,” Ephrim responds, gently kicking his foot into Throndir. </p><p>“Shut up,” he says, catching Ephrim’s leg and tugging his feet into his lap. </p><p>“We’ll go out tomorrow,” Ephrim says firmly. “Up on the hill behind the University. You can practice.”</p><p>It’s that tone that doesn’t brook disagreement, and Throndir sighs.</p><p>“Fine,” he agrees.</p><p>They sit in silence for a long time, watching as the sky slowly turns grey as dawn approaches, passing the glass back and forth between them. Eventually, Ephrim tips his head back against the wall and sighs. </p><p>“I think maybe I could sleep now,” he says, the tiredness bleeding into the edges of his voice. </p><p>“Good,” Throndir says. He stands, and tugs Ephrim off the table. “I’m going to relieve the outer patrol, I think, it’s almost dawn.”</p><p>“You should stay,” Ephrim says. He touches a hand to the side of Throndir’s face, in a way he no doubt thinks is suggestive, but the droop of his eyes betrays him. </p><p>“You should sleep,” Throndir says, with a laugh. “It’s fine, I’ll come back in a few hours, it’s—”</p><p>A distant shout stops him short; he cocks his head and listens. </p><p>“What,” Ephrim starts, but Throndir shushes him. </p><p>Another shout, the words hard to distinguish, except right at the end Throndir hears <em>from the river, they’re back</em>. </p><p>His pulse starts to race. It can’t be.</p><p>Ephrim clearly heard it too—he’s looking at Throndir in disbelief.</p><p>“Is it—”</p><p>“Are they—”</p><p>They both break off and stare at each other, and then spring into action. </p><p>Throndir tucks his gun into his belt and grabs his cloak, and Ephrim frantically dresses in the nearest garments he has to hand. </p><p>Throndir almost doesn’t want to believe, doesn’t want to hope, after what has felt like a brutal, relentless parade of despair, but in his heart he <em>knows</em>. They’re back; Hella, Adaire, Lem, <em>Hadrian</em>.</p><p>And he’s suddenly terrified.</p><p>The last eight years have been the hardest of his life; he’s struggled and almost starved, made bad decisions, lost people, and given up so many of the things that had always told him who he was.</p><p>But eight years is too long for this place to feel like anything but home, to feel anything but familiar, and for the first time in a long, long time he has no idea what’s going to happen next. </p><p>He turns to Ephrim, heart pounding, not sure what he’s going to say, but Ephrim is right there in front of him and Throndir throws his arms around him, dragging Ephrim close by his narrow waist and burying his face in his shoulder. Ephrim puts his arms around his shoulders and holds him just as tightly. </p><p>“It’s good,” he says, his voice steady. “It’s good, Throndir, we’re going to be fine.”</p><p>Throndir releases him, a little embarrassed to find that his eyes are wet. He rubs a hand across his face. </p><p>“Fuck,” he says. “I can’t believe it.”</p><p>“Me neither,” Ephrim says, and huffs out a laugh. </p><p>“Okay, finish getting dressed,” Throndir says, stepping away. “I’m going to go wake up Rosanna and Benjamin. I’ll see you down there.”</p><p>“Okay,” Ephrim says. He tips forward and presses his forehead to Throndir’s just for a second. “Go.”</p><p>Throndir goes, and as he steps outside, the first sunlight spills over the horizon.</p>
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